


First Casualty

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Battle, Dagorlad, Gen, Last Alliance, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, death of original character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:42:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thalion, eldest son of Thranduil, grandson of Oropher, was one of the elves who rode to Dagorlad with the Last Alliance.</p><p>He was almost too young to go.</p><p>He never came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Casualty

The sunlight gleams on their armour, on their weapons, their banners wave in the breeze, bravely shouting out their lineage for all to read, as the horns blow, and battle is joined. A battle of jousts, knights from opposing ranks pairing off and duelling honourably, footsoldiers cheering them on.

And of course, the enemy loses almost every joust, the good live, or at least die with a song of rejoicing on their lips.

 

 

 

That is what they told Thalion.

That is what it was supposed to be like. How not, when this is a war with right on our side, when we fight against the arrayed forces of evil, when we are in alliance with all that is good in this world?

 

 

 

But there is no sunshine, no cheerful breeze – there is only gloom, and mud, and chill wind.

There is no honour, no resigned death – only pain, and fear, only blood and agony.

 

 

 

He rides into battle at his mother’s side, his father leading them.

It is his first battle.

He does not show fear – he is the grandson of the King Oropher, he is his mother’s, his father’s son. He is Thranduilion. He will not disgrace his house by showing fear.

And if he holds his sword so tight that his knuckles are white – that is because he has been told over and over – do not drop it.

No other reason.

He will not show fear.

He will be as calm, as impassive as his father, and even as he tells himself this, he remembers his father’s calm is but a glamour, concealing his thoughts as it conceals his pain, his scars.

Well, then, he too will wear a glamour, a glamour created by will alone.

 

 

 

Were there time, later, he would laugh at himself for such a resolve. 

Were there time, he would shout his anger at his weapons tutors who told him he was ready for battle, told him he was skilled. 

There is no time.

No time to pause, to think, to assess. No time to understand the shouted commands, the plans, the vision. No time to wonder if we have done the right thing, if we should have held back until we were sure our allies were also committed to the charge.

No time to admit – you were right, Ada, as you are always right. I was not ready for this, I am not well enough trained, not old enough, I should not be here. You should have left me at home with my brothers.

I am afraid.

Ada, I want you to save me, take me away from here.

Please Ada.

 

 

The plans go awry, the allies lose contact with one another, their own force is cut off, surrounded.

His grandfather, the king, is slain. Not in a great duel, not in a way that may be sung of by bards, but – surrounded by footsoldiers, hacked to pieces, his horse killed under him, and he torn apart – close enough that they see every blow, hear every sound even through the roar of battle – far enough from them that there is nothing they can do to help.

 

 

Ada, forgive me that I insisted I should come.

That I am here, that you must protect me, that you need watch your own father die and be unable to help – because you need be at my side.

Naneth, I do not want this. I am not the warrior, the hero you named me for, I want only to go home.

But there is no time for any of it. No time to cling, to cry out, only time to fight, to endlessly lift and swing the sword, to try over and over to remember what to do, how to cope.

And then a moment when attention drifts.

A moment when pain begins, white-hot, sharp.

And it is too late for anything much.

Only to look at his father, to cling to his mother, to try to cry out for help, even though it will not come, it cannot come, there is no help that can heal this. 

The pain grows and spreads and becomes dull almost, becomes almost the world, almost all that is left.

Pain and – and guilt.

I am sorry, Ada.

So sorry.

I was wrong.

You were right, as you are always right. I should not have come. I do not belong here.

But I am going to die here. 

Die now.

And it hurts, it hurts, Naneth. Ada, make it stop.

Please.

His mother holds him, a space made safe for the two of them, just for a little while.

A little while is all that there now is.

But his father is turned away, is still fighting – and even though he is desperately trying to cut his way to his son, trying to cut a space where he can hold him, comfort him, cradle him in his arms one last time – he cannot – he cannot. An instant’s inattention, and the enemy will descend and what is a painful death will become agonising drawn-out torture – for the delight of their foes, and the despair of their allies would be great at such a picture.

His father turns, looks at him and the coldness on his face – the despair – is the worst hurt of all. 

He has failed, and in failing, he has destroyed his father.

I am sorry, so sorry, he thinks, he tries to cry out, he tries to speak, to say something of it with his eyes if he can no longer speak.

But he cannot – his father can barely see this distance.

He reaches out – perhaps his father will see the movement at least.

Hold me, Ada, please, hold me. I am afraid. I am dying, and I am afraid.

I do not want to die.

I am sorry. I failed you.

Please.

Forgive me.

 

 

 

But his father does not reach him until it is too late to say any of it.

The allies arrive, and the battle is won.

And his father will live on with the words he never had chance to say burning into his heart.

I am sorry.

I should not have brought you here.

Forgive me that I lived on while you did not.

I loved you so.

Forgive me.

**Author's Note:**

> .
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Although this takes place long before the Fourth Age, and Three Houses is a series of the Fourth Age, I've included this as part of it.
> 
> I wrote a (short) AU once, imagining what would have been different (in Rising-verse) had Thalion lived. It's called "I'll be there for you".


End file.
